Wycliff took the warm cup. The roasted nuttiness of the steam wasn’t enough to lift his fouled mood. “Nothing good about it but coffee.”
“There is good, my lord. Captain Steward has kept his word. He’s refused all of Johnson’s and your uncle’s shipments.”
That was good. Wycliff’s plan was moving along. “Yes, their mercantile stock will rot on the docks. Let’s start calling notes. That will lead to others doing the same.”
“My lord, your uncle does have other shippers. Smaller firms who are not in the same dire straits as the captain.”
“True. But Steward is the largest and the other fish will demand full payment before any goods are loaded. Their remaining money will be eaten up, trying to stay out of debtors’ prison.”
Wycliff slurped the coffee. It was hot and stung his raw throat. “I need Uncle Soulden and Johnson to crumble before the month ends.” He took off his robe and wandered to his closet and picked through his waistcoats. Dark, darker, dark with green. This damask print was surely Croome fabric.
“Send a few grooms to my father’s…to my country estate. Bring his trunks, the oldest ones from the attics. One of them may have my half of the marriage registry. I should gift it to Mrs. Wilky as a wedding present from me for when she accepts the good barrister.”
“She hasn’t accepted yet.”
“She will. The registry is the perfect gift. Something she can burn to be free of Adam and me.”
“You are one and the same, my lord. Have you forgotten this?”
He glared at Lawden.
“Sorry, my lord.”
“And I need answers from Madame Talease. She’s not been at her in-town bawds. Perhaps, I can pay her to visit Blaren House. She likes gold.”
Lawden kicked at the blankets that Wycliff had fought and tossed to the floor. “That’s a mighty change in your mood and moral fidelity. Is burning the registry document to free you, too?”
“I wasn’t an angel, Lawden. But no. Not that kind of visit from Talease. My profile is too visible to be gallivanting on isolated roads. Mrs. Johnson has seen me several times at the Croomes. That’s dangerous enough, but I have control in the crowded city.”
“Will do, my lord.” Lawden picked up the sheet and threw it on the mattress. “Have you thought about trying to see Mrs. Wilky again?”
“No. She kicked me out. Perhaps I should burn the registry. It would remove proof of her impending bigamy.”
“You’re accepting this? That’s unlike you, my lord, especially when you have something in your head.”
Lawden was right. Wycliff was a goal-driven man, but what could he do if Ruth had decided against him? “I’ve already died to her. Only one man has been successfully resurrected.”
“Two, if you count Lazarus, my lord. If you’re going to wallow in the scriptures, be more precise.”
“Precision, truthfulness. They both seem problematic.”
Lawden went to the bed table and picked up the book of poems written by Wycliff’s mother. “I see you’ve been reading the loss poems.”
“Well, she had a way of describing death and endings. ‘She feels the iron hand of pain no more.’Something good about that.”
His man sighed aloud. “No one is good with endings, my lord. Your pappy was not. Neither are you. What’s that gut telling you, Wycliff?”
“End my pursuit. Focus on finding Cicely. Send Mrs. Wilky that porcelain statue on my desk as a present, for she’s the bride that escaped. Send the frog puppet for Christopher.”
“Your gut says all that? It’s mighty talkative to be a liar. You are a man of war, not a prince of peace.”
“What?”
“You don’t give up. You made a mistake. You miscalculated. What man in love doesn’t?”
“But she hates me.”
“She hates Adam Wilkinson, the boy she eloped with. I watched you two. I saw how she leaned into you when she was weak. She may dislike Adam, but Lord Wycliff has a chance.”
